A Thursday night, with him distant and longed for

[turtlesturtles]

Cold box, can you understand these
Letters? Arranged one next to the other
They are people in a queue -
Strangers whose only connection
Is their purpose -
The waiting.

Does my pulse resound inside
And does my frown reflect your own?
Can you feel this ache inside
This awful pause -
I call it fear.

An ice spreads from the empty
Window, a shiver of what I hope
Is chilled air runs through -
The only sound is typing
And the traffic -
Bring him home.